Turn Up the Heat (7 page)

It was almost closing time.

She’d tried her best not to keep glancing at the back booth, not to look up every time the door opened. He hadn’t promised anything, and she was only torturing herself.

“Can I get you guys anything else?” she asked her last customers, an older couple. They held hands across the cracked and pitted table, eyes on each other as if there were no one else in the world. As if they had just met, though they’d told her they were celebrating their forty-third wedding anniversary.

“Just the check,” the man said.

What Kincaid had said about her—that she was kind—had meant a lot to her. She’d tried in the last few years, since starting cooking school, to be thick-skinned, impervious, and sometimes she worried that her better qualities wouldn’t survive the process of hardening herself.

It was interesting, the other thing Kincaid had said about her. That it meant something, how much she liked the families that came in here, how much she liked couples like this one. It was true; she felt a sense of hope and longing, spending time with them. Maybe she
was
relationship material, or would be, someday, when she got her feet under her.

She just wished the world didn’t seem to be divided into men like Fallon who wanted real relationships, by which they meant
non-kinky,
and guys like Kincaid, who…who didn’t seem to think that what she liked was so…weird. Who didn’t seem to think she was just one big
mistake.

Her customers settled up and left, and she began the shutdown process. Blake—filling in for Hadley, who had flown to Florida because his father had had a heart attack—was in the kitchen, cleaning up. Hadley hadn’t pranked Lily again since the night she’d burned him. Just like she’d said to Kincaid, you couldn’t show weakness.

There was a knock. It was dark outside, and she couldn’t make out the face peering in at her until she opened the door.

“I know you’re closed, technically,” Kincaid said.

He looked so damn good, towering over her, every blade of bone in his face sharply defined, those ice-blue eyes twinkling. Not a smile, not really, but some mischief, as if he’d deliberately shown up late, kept her waiting, guessing, on purpose.

“Come in,” she said, drawing the door wide.

He brushed past her, the heat and solidity of his body rushing into her blood, leaving her wet and tingling. How did he do that?

Markos came out of the kitchen, drying his hands on a towel. He looked old and pained. “Kincaid, could I get you to take a look at the trap again?”

“You know my terms, Markos,” Kincaid said.

She hid a smile. She still hadn’t mentioned to him that she’d overheard that conversation.

Markos frowned, then shrugged. “Fine. Whatever. Lily. You have a minute? This man needs a burger.”

“Hey now. Doesn’t have to be right this second.” Kincaid waved off Markos’s demand, giving Lily an apologetic glance.

If he had any idea how thrilled she was at the idea of cooking for him again, he wouldn’t be apologizing. Her mouth quivered with a suppressed smile. She looked up and saw him smirking at her, and the smile broke right out onto her face.

“I’ll cook,” she said. “But not a burger.”

“What?” Markos asked.

“You want Kincaid to repair your trap, right?”

Markos nodded, defeated.

“I’ll cook for him, but not a burger.”

Markos threw his hands up. “Cook. Whatever you want.” He turned and stalked into the back.

She and Kincaid grinned stupidly at each other. Kincaid reached out to pluck a menu from one of the booths, but Lily took it out of his hands. “Tell me what you’re in the mood for.”

His eyes flashed dark and dangerous at that, and her body clenched in response.

“What’s your specialty?” Low and husky.

“I can do anything you want.”

They definitely weren’t talking about food anymore.

“Keep your clothes on,” Blake called over the counter.

She realized that they’d been drifting gradually closer and closer together until she could feel the vibration of his speech, the hum of it in his chest. She took a step back.

Alma was watching them, too, as she wiped down the tables and set them for the morning, a slight smile on her face.

It registered with Lily that she had almost no control where Kincaid was concerned. She was careless and half-addicted, and it might be a lot harder than she’d thought to keep this
just sex.
It would be way too easy to slide down into it, a rush of entry and forgetting that would leave her miserable when she had to cut bait and head to Chicago.

A different kind of mistake. And she understood that she was past caring about that, that the things he’d said to her yesterday, the way his permission had vanquished her shame, meant more to her than her own rules.

“I make really good panini,” she said.

“Panini?”

“Grilled sandwiches.”

“What do you put in them?”

“What do you like?” She tried not to make it sound like yet another invitation, but there was no way to stop whatever this thing was between them. The cascading, mad chemical reaction, rushing toward completion. Everything got sucked into it, like light into a singularity.

“Meat,” he said.

She put her hand to her forehead and started to laugh.

“What?”

“It’s just—”

“No, I didn’t mean…”

“I know you didn’t,” she said. “I just feel like I can’t open my mouth without talking dirty.”

Now it was his turn to laugh. “Well, then. Go right ahead.”

“Later,” she whispered.

He went still. “And I’m supposed to be able to eat?”

“Why wouldn’t you be able to eat?”

“Digestion uses a lot of blood flow, and all mine’s somewhere else.”

The urge to reach out and confirm this information was so strong that her mouth watered and her palms tingled. She locked her hands behind her back, which only made her think about what she wanted him to do to her. With his hands. With scarves or her own panties or a ripped T-shirt or whatever he wanted to use to govern her.

“Roast beef,” she said, a little desperately. “Caramelized onions. Feta cheese. Mushrooms.”

That, at least, didn’t sound dirty. Much.

“Wow,” he said. “That sounds really good.”

Lily put on an apron and went back behind the counter.

To fix the trap, Kincaid had to lie on the floor not too far away from where she was working. She was wearing a short skirt, and she was pretty sure that from where he was, if he really wanted to, he could see her panties, royal-blue satin.

She hoped so.

She concentrated on the food, but it was damn hard because every time she looked down at him, he was smirking at her with heat in his eyes. Finally he finished his task and leaned on the counter while she made his sandwich, watching. Watching so intently she could feel it, the slide of his gaze over her skin.

She tried to ignore him, but she never forgot that his eyes were on her, not when she turned and bent to the lower shelves, not when she stretched to reach the oil, not when she shook the pan, hyperconscious of the jiggle of her breasts, the sympathetic pinch of her nipples.

He watched, and when she peeked at him, it was obvious from the heat in his eyes that he liked what he saw. His expression said he’d be content to watch her all night, except he had bigger and better plans for her.

No one had ever looked at her like that. It made her feel drunk and desperate.

“Damn, that’s good,” he said, when she’d presented him her creation on one of the diner’s thick-lipped plates. He sat at the counter, and she leaned across from him.

God,
the way he ate. Bites too ravenous to be civilized, the big muscle in his jaw clenching and unclenching. He hunched over a little, like he was protecting what she’d prepared for him. There was something primitive about it, something that reminded her of the way he’d held her, the way he’d blocked her in with the strength and weight of his big body. His tongue flicked out to catch the dressing that slid down one of his fingers.
I’ll do that for you,
she wanted to say.

He caught her looking, and his eyes narrowed as if he’d heard her thought. He licked the finger again, then his lips.

It wasn’t the licking that she fantasized about. It was the stubble that clung to his jaw, the way it would scrape against the soft flesh between her legs.

Maybe he could hear her thinking that, too, because he looked dreamy, heavy-lidded. Or maybe he just loved the sandwich that much. You’d have to pry it away from him, she figured.

“We’re heading out,” Blake said, indicating Alma, too. “Markos left.” Blake tossed her the key. “Don’t forget to lock up or Markos will have my head.”

“I won’t,” Lily said.

“Be good,” Blake said. He looked like he wanted to say something else, but he didn’t. He held the door open for Alma on the way out.

“Nice guy,” Kincaid said, nodding toward the door.

“He is,” said Lily.

He pushed his plate away. “Best sandwich I’ve ever eaten.”

Probably it was an exaggeration, but she’d happily take it. “Glad to hear it.”

“Why’re you here? Why aren’t you in Chicago, looking for a real job? If that’s what you want?”

She sighed. “Long story.”

“I’ve got all night.”

More heat in his eyes, a look like she was in trouble and he had her punishment all mapped out.

“I blurred some lines,” she said. It was how she thought of it, edges that shouldn’t have been soft. “My boyfriend was also my mentor and my roommate, and I was supposed to work for him after I graduated culinary school, but we broke up. No boyfriend, no job, no apartment.” It was a vast oversimplification, but she’d need a while before she was ready to tell him how it had all gone down.

“And he was too much of a dick to give you a job anyway?”

She liked how he bristled in outrage for her. He could beat the crap out of Fallon if he wanted; Fallon was a scrawny guy who’d never worked out a day in his life. But Kincaid wouldn’t. He’d just stand there, the way he had when he’d called Markos out, the threat of his body plain as day.

“He said it would be awkward. Distracting. For us and everyone else.”

“Would it have been?”

“Probably. I don’t know. I was pretty upset at the time.”

It already seemed like a long time ago. Another life. Fallon and his judgment, his willingness to let her be only half present.

Screw Fallon. Fallon and his conventionality, Fallon and his lies. Screw him.

“I don’t need him,” Lily said, meaning it for the first time since Fallon had told her that he couldn’t do what she needed him to do,
even though she’d never told him she needed him to do anything.
“I do, however, need money. I need first, last, and security, and then I’m outta here. I’m working here and at Lefty’s when I can, tending bar. I’ll have enough probably by August? September at the latest.”

Kincaid nodded, eyes never leaving her face. Listening with his whole body, his posture, bent to her.

She could tell him, she knew. She could tell him about Fallon, about how she’d asked him to experiment with her. How he’d—

He’d failed, but it had felt like her failure. He’d made his limp dick
her
problem. And she’d just accepted that responsibility. Crawled into shame.

She bet it would piss Kincaid off. What Fallon had done to her. All of it—not just his lies, but the way he’d wanted her to be culpable.

Suddenly she wanted to distract herself. “What about you? What are you doing in Tierney Bay?”

He’d been so present with her while she told him the partial story of Fallon, and now she watched him slip away behind his eyes. Suddenly the Kincaid who’d dreamily glommed her sandwich, the Kincaid who’d told her she was kind, the Kincaid who’d listened to her troubles, was no longer available, and in his place was this ice-cold,
angry
marble facsimile.

“Look,” he said.

She already knew what was coming. Maybe not the exact words, but the gist.

“There’s a lot of stuff I don’t want to talk about. That’s gotta be okay with you.”

She nodded quickly, wanting him to get past it. Wanting to get back to the real Kincaid, the one who’d been almost—almost her
friend
a few minutes ago. Except now he was saying he wasn’t, really, and the dumb thing was, she
knew
that. She’d set the terms herself, earlier today.
I’m not relationship material either.

She’d said it because it was true. She had
plans,
and the plans called for her to pick up and move halfway across the country so she could focus on what mattered.

And yeah, in the meantime, the plans called for what Kincaid was offering—right here, right now, what her body was primed for, pricking nipples and wet panties and the breathlessness that never left her when he was around. She didn’t want to spook him, make him think she couldn’t handle what she’d asked him for—
I want that. More of that.

Because God, she
did.

“Yeah,” she said. “That’s okay with me. I don’t need you to talk.”

They caravanned back to Kincaid’s place. He wondered what she was thinking as she followed his torn-up ’96 Honda—which was missing whole chunks of trim—out the long, steep, winding drive, almost onto the beach. His cottage was the last of a series of tiny boxes. All the cottages were in a tsunami-hazard zone, which meant that periodically a gigantic outdoor speaker blasted out an emergency warning test that sounded like the growling of an enormous bear. If you didn’t have a heart attack from the shock of the broadcast, you might have a chance of running to higher ground.

All those disclaimers aside, it was gorgeous here. The woods had never been properly cleared, and it reminded him of the forest where he’d grown up, dark and close, almost primeval. From the big front window in what passed for a living room, he saw only the Pacific. There was a fireplace, too, even if it didn’t throw much heat. At the time he’d rented it, he hadn’t been thinking about it, but it was a pretty sweet setup for seduction.